After booking part of my upcoming spring break with Liz (we're spending nearly a week in Barcelona and its surrounding area), I continued my search for the perfect café. At long last, I've found it! I almost don't want to disclose its location, but I also don't want to be a snob. Perhaps no one else will find it as charming as I do. Art Cafe can be found at 37 rue de Lappe, not far from the Bastille Metro. They have a strong (et gratuit!) wireless signal, decently priced chai (3€!) and pie (2,60€!), and play everything from Devendra Banhart to our favorite hits from the eighties. On top of that, it also attracts the most unattractive people in all of Paris! At long last!

Here's a photo of my little firestarter, Kathryn, in my café.

I am still trying to visit Morocco either before or after my time in Barcelona. If any one wants to come with me, speak up now.

I am also still looking for a tambourine. I can't decide which of these two dilemmas are of more immediate concern.

Each morning I wake up completely dissatisfied with my bangs (or fringe ou frange) and give them a trim. Now that I have been here for five weeks, they look nothing more than confused, lost and afraid. So after French class, I found a stylist. The salon is decorated in a sort of organic modern with a marine twist. (Google tells me that marinal is definitely not the word I am looking for.)

With the help of another stylist, I explained to Yoni what I wanted. Because the French lovhttp://www2.blogger.com/img/gl.photo.gife to get unnecessarily exasperated, he barked (en francais) "What is this? I can't work with this! No cut, no cut! This? No cut!" while gripping the sides of my bangs. I promised him I would buy a barrette and would never attempt to cut them on my own again. This solution seemed to satisfy him.

My next stop was a library exposition on images of the Commune. Each poster explains the related events of that day and is accompanied by illustrations, the style of which I just loved. Here's an illustration of Courbet.

I raced back to the apartment to meet with the internet technicien I found in a magazine for English ex-pats. He was Scottish. He fixed madame's router within ten minutes. It just needed to be reset. Unfortunately, it took a professional opinion until la madame would believe such a thing. When she asked him what exactly was wrong, he explained: "It is very difficult for me to tell you in French. It's very technical. Let me try in English. We have this phrase for when something stops working. We say its 'knickers are in a twist.' Basically, your router's knickers were in a twist." It was clear that she didn't understand the idiom, so he mimed it for her by pulling his own underwear out from the top of his jeans and pretended to wring them out. Wonderful.

Afterward, Cat, her friend Lara and I went to the Louvre. I did my best to summarize for them two years' worth of knowledge on 19th-century French visual culture. I didn't do half bad, but I could use a lot more practice with my presentation skills.

Mika leaves tomorrow for Japan, so we went out to a bar near the Trocadero (Le Coq) for drinks. We were a little too rambunctious for the pretentiousness of this champagne bar, but the staff liked us enough to bring free food (in addition to the mandatory olives and almonds). I ordered du porte rouge and loved every intoxicating sip.

Here's a snippet to explain just how sassy my roommate can be. This morning at the breakfast table I asked if I was showing too much cleavage for French class. Her response? "What cleavage?" Sassy, sassy lady.

For dinner? Roasted duck. For the appetizer we ate lentil (maybe?) soup with dollops of thick crème.

Here is an excerpt Barthes used in The Neutral from Gustav Janouch's book, Conversations with Kafka. This is the response Kafka allegedly gave after Janouch showed him a sonnet he was working on.

"You describe the poet as a great and wonderful man whose feet are on the ground, while his head disappears in the clouds. Of course, that is a perfectly ordinary image drawn within the intellectual framework of lower-middle-class convention. It is an illusion based on wish fulfillment, which has nothing in common with reality. In fact, the poet is always much smaller and weaker than the social average. Therefore he feels the burden of earthly existence much more intensely and strongly than other men. For him personally his song is only a scream. Art for the artist is only suffering, through which he releases himself for further suffering. He is not a giant, but only a more or less brightly plumaged bird in the cage of his existence."

For the past couple nights I have had dreams in which I was going to Harvard for grad school. In the first, I played badminton with two colleagues before lying around in the grass. I don't remember what the second was about, but I am pretty sure it had some academic dialogue. I don't take either of these as any kind of sign, except now I would really like to play some sports.



My day was productive and intellectually rewarding. I bought myself a personal-sized mushroom pizza (3€) before inspecting Gilbert Jeune's collection of travel guides and poetry. I gave up and went to Shakespeare & Co. after not being able to find a cheap, bilingual copy of Baudelaire's Fleurs du Mal. There, I sat upstairs for a great length of time reading, taking notes, and eavesdropping. Sylvia was engaged in a Russian lesson. How blessed that woman must be for having been raised speaking both perfect English and French. Meanwhile, visitors popped into the reading room to snap photographs.





For class we visited Notre Dame and its subterranean archaeological museum.

For dinner? Pork chops.





Images:
1. Some very lucky people cross this threshold every day to enter into their apartments.
2. Other lucky people wake up in the morning, get their mugs of coffee, and then spill them when they look out their windows and think the Eiffel Tower is falling on their multi-million-dollar apartments. Then they realize they are fools and that it is only another beautiful Parisian day and it is the clouds, not the tower, that are moving.
3. Some people consider kings to be lucky people. I do not -- who else gets shit on by pigeons?
4. Proust's bedroom.
5. 'Tis the season for the resurrection of Christ.

I have not yet taken a picture, but graffiti covers the walls in the Metro's tunnels. A couple of weeks ago, I was thinking about who paints it and when. The vandals must sneak in at night after the trains stop running. They must wear headlamps, unless they make their girlfriends (am I assuming too much?) come with them to hold the flashlights. I gave a good five minutes' thought to these artists and went on that night to have a dream about them.

In my dream, I was standing on the platform at the station near my apartment. The rumble of the train could be heard in the distance when three men came running out of the tunnel wearing face masks. It was obvious that they were the ones doing all of the graffiti. The men were none other than the three homeless guys who spend all day on the bench talking and drinking cans of beer.

It was a brief and relatively uneventful dream, but it gave a little more insight and liberty for when I imagine the lives of the strangers I encounter.

Some more observations I have made around my neighborhood.

Every morning I walk past a fromagerie. It smells so terrible I have a habit of holding my breath from two storefronts away.

An older woman walks her two whippets and an Italian greyhound in the late afternoon right past my apartment. The Italian hates the concrete after it rains.

A young (thirty-something), attractive couple lives in the building next to mine. Their apartment is at ground-level and instead of a door, they climb in and out of the apartment through the window. Most days the shutters are closed and the room is dark, but when they are open I always peek in. They sit at their kitchen table, smiling and talking and they always smile at me when I walk by, especially if its when they are climbing in or out of the window. I aspire to find as much charm in my life as this couple does.

On the other side of their apartment, there is an upholstery shop. The inside of the shop looks straight out of the 19th century, but the young men working on the chairs certainly don't.



After class today, I met up with Jade to play darts at an Irish pub. Much to his surprise, I won both games (one of regular darts and the other cricket). I have never played real darts before, whereas he's a regular. On top of that, I was drinking cider and he only had sparking water. I may not have much technique, but apparently whatever I do have works well enough. Then again, the Irish luck was on my side.


La madame returned this evening. She does not approve of Cat and I's solution to the internet problem. She said she is calling the internet company tomorrow to come and fix the wireless. She said it would cost 150€ and we were expected to pay. This is going to be a problem.

My only goal for today is not to leave the house. So far, so good. Fortunately, Daylight Savings Time is on my side.

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Friday I spent more time with my favorite Apple technician and in the Pompidou.

Saturday morning, Cat and I devised a way for us to get the internet. With 10-meter long cords we are able to connect our laptops to the router. Hopefully when la madame returns from her vacation she won't notice them snaking through her foyer.

Saturday afternoon I went out on some errands and spent about six hours reading Les Misérables in the Pause Café. Two hundred pages later, I took a long walk through the Bastille and Marais quartiers, whistling an improvisational march until exhaustion took hold of my feet and cheeks.

I took the Metro home, but not without stopping for my daily Nutella crêpe.

Today we left central Paris to tour le basilique de Saint Denis, a beautiful Gothic cathedral. Religious buildings have sat on this site since the first millenium. Some of the columns in the current structure are allegedly Merovingian.

The story of Saint Denis is this: After heathen priests beheaded the bishop on the top of Montmartre, he carried his head several miles north to the present suburb Saint Denis. It is said that while he walked, he continued preaching a sermon. This was in the 3rd century.

The bodies of the royal families have nearly all been buried here. During the Revolution, they were unearthed and dumped into mass graves. The Bourbon Restoration then attempted to return the bodies to each of their appropriate tombs.



After seeing both the cathedral and its crypt, I went by myself to le musée d'art et d'histoire. An old Carmélite monastery (built in 1625) houses the museum. In addition to the regular collection, there was an exposition on the Commune and its Communards and another on contemporary photography.

Today we returned to the Louvre to view the small-format 19th-century paintings (and spent some time with Ingres and Watteau). I felt especially weak and sickly all day and the cough has been getting worse. In search of a cure, Liz and I went to a café after class for bread and a milkshake (which I don’t particularly recommend ordering. It was nothing more than a 6€ frothy chocolate milk. But, my god, it hit the spot).

Here is what I see every night walking home. Also, there is a button I have to push in order to leave my apartment complex on the side of this gargoyle's head.

Born a rule-abider, I went to class anyway and actually paid attention better than ever before. Succès!

Unfortunately, by the time my history class let out, I was little more than a walking zombie and still had to rendez-vous with a new friend. We met up in Montmartre and ordered french fries and duck breast. I was late to dinner. The other two houseguests, ma mère and her good-tasting, though unidentifiable, plate of meat and potatoes were waiting for me.

Song: The Books - Vogt Dig For Kloppervok

Rules must be understood before they can be broken.
And the time had finally come for me to break a few more.

After coming to the terms that my internal clock had mistakenly been operating on the revolutionary calendar, it occurred to me that all of last night’s shows were actually tonight’s. After class I ran up to the Trianon Theatre in Montmartre to try to score a ticket to see Bonnie “Prince” Billy. They were sold out, but a man was scalping his second ticket. Another guy in line helped me negotiate a lower price, insisting that I should get it cheaper for being “une jeune fille délicieuse.” After securing my ticket, I also wrangled a free beer out of the man. Succès féminin!

While waiting in line, I interrogated my partner in crime, Charles, on his thoughts of the French educational, medical, and political systems. We talked about the city and its strikes. One of the most interesting things he said was: “Sometimes I meet people who wonder why we always strike when we are already so privileged. But we realize how good we have it, so we feel we have to protect these privileges from being taken away from us.” He said that when the price of tuition raises a couple of euros, all of the students strike. I find this truly amazing and cannot quite figure out what it says about Americans.

He approved of the French educational system, but his doesn’t think that there is an adequate network to help secure employment after graduation. Last year the government tried to pass a law allowing companies to fire at will for an employee’s first two years and the students went on strike.

He also likes the medical system and doesn’t think it threatened the quality of the doctors. He pointed out that France had some excellent schools for higher education, especially for medicine, and the graduates hardly ever left the country to practice. Last year studies showed that there weren’t enough to cover all of the population and there have actually been a lot of doctors immigrating into France to find work.

After our conversation, the doors finally opened into the theater. My ticket was on the top balcony, where I sacrificed (and, later, retrieved) my coat in order to “ask my friend in the front row (Charles) une petite question.”

The show was exceptional and, unlike many concerts, enhanced my appreciation for the music. Too often I find live performances disappointing and even a little boring, but tonight my body buzzed with excitement. The man’s magnetism is peculiar; discovering that he genetically inherited animal instincts or possesses superhuman abilities would not come as a surprise. Afterward, I couldn’t help but ask Monsieur Oldham to come out and share a drink. A small group of us went to un tabac around the corner for a few glasses of Lèfe. Ironically, the bar was half-way between the most beautiful church, Sacre-Coeur, and Pigalle, an avenue famous for its sex shops and debauchery. I found everyone very cordial and was even given a ride home. Overall, it was a night too fun for the next morning’s 9:00 French class.

Let's not talk about it. But tonight I ate McDonald's instead of going to any of the following concerts:

Bonnie "Prince" Billy
The Arcade Fire with Electrelane
Damien Rice

Last night Brigeth and I went out to celebrate St. Patrick's Day. We found a small, quiet Scottish pub that specialized in whisky (The Pure Malt, 4 rue Caron, 4). I selected a single barrel, single malt Balvenie (aged 15 years, 50.4% alcohol) from Speyside. The menu listed dried fruits, chocolate, and wood as the undertones of its flavor. I have to admit, it was the single most beautiful drink I have ever drunk. It was spicy yet subtle, and unquestionably smooth. It numbed my tongue, but, as Brigeth pointed out, not in a bad way. We think we may have found ourselves a new past-time. Looks like we'll have to find ourselves jobs, too, so we can afford to spare the 9-15€ these shots cost.

We actually took the night bus home. Okay, so we took it partway home and then a cab for the remainder of the way. From the Arc de Triomphe to my house it costs only 7,50€. Anyway, from now on I'm studying the night bus map so I can actually start going out at night.


I made an early morning and went to an art and flea market (Boulevard Edgar Quinet). This place had everything -- from old jewelry, tools, and furniture to firemen's jackets and Chinese dildos. I bought some old Chinese coins for necklaces (4€) and an 1820s Egyptian pendant (a steep 10€).




Afterwards, I went to the Centre Pompidou to use the internet. The line to get into the library was incredibly long, so instead I went to the museum. From the top gallery, one gets an excellent view of the city. Here are some pictures, including one of the Sacre-Coeur.

I had pizza and another banana and Nutella crêpe for lunch. Seriously, I think the States needs to recognize the nutritional and economical values of both crêpes and Nutella.

Then I decided to stand in line to get into the library. When I came in yesterday, there wasn't a single person waiting to get into the building. It took me longer than two hours to get in. It's wet, dark and freezing outside and again I was under-dressed. The guy in line in front of me thought it would be an excellent idea to smoke some cannabis every hour or so. No one else was very impressed by this, maybe because he didn't offer to share, but a couple other girls found it funny. No one bothered to stop him.

No one stopped the drunkard, either, who spent his last half-hour shouting at people and telling stories about hunting elephants (or this is what I gathered based on his gestures alone). He wore a leather fringed jacket and long, scraggly brown hair that matched his few remaining teeth. His laugh (long, hiccuped and very distinctive) kept the line mildly entertained. As I am writing this entry, I hear his laugh from somewhere on the other side of the library. Just now I laughed (really, it's that good) and my table seemed very concerned about my outburst. Fortunately, I think they're over it now.


Anyway, back to the line. It was terrible. On the bright side, I did get to witness Les Amis de la Commune de Paris 1871 parade down the street. It took me so long to get in here, I don't plan on leaving until they kick me out.

So, I'll write about another thing that have been on my mind. My housemate is Japanese and her French is not the most intelligible. Three nights ago we were talking about dinner and I thought she asked me about potatoes. I responded that, yes, I liked potatoes quite a bit. It took me until last night to realize that she had simply said "peut être," not potato. Maybe this also explains why she giggles at everything I say.

Song: Johnny Cash - Ring of Fire

When I woke this morning, my two housemates had already left. I ate my usual breakfast (cereal and toast with Nutella), took a shower, dressed in green, and plotted my morning. One of my professors told me about an open-air book market that opens on the weekends. I took the Metro into an unfamiliar part of town -- where le peuple live. A baker was making baguettes inside the local boulangerie when I passed by. How quaint that a man works on a Saturday morning! Just kidding.

No less than three hours of my own leisure time were spent inside of the book market. I can now understand how historians are able to get so enthusiastic about their subjects. This market had everything that could have been of interest to me (except for stereographs. One of the vendors told me that outside of Paris there is a photography salon, but it is open only for tomorrow. He assured me stereographs could be found there. I am going to see how much train tickets will be.) The vendors at this market had old and rare books, hand-colored maps, newspapers, magazines, advertisements, menus, autographs, postcards, photographs, diplomas, letters, et cetera. They were all incredibly nice to me and I was able to practice my French. Despite the 70-degree week, today was closer to 30 degrees and I was not dressed warm enough. Two different vendors (one of which was a woman) offered me a jacket. One offered coffee and I told him I didn’t drink it. Then he offered a cigarette and I told him I didn’t smoke. He replied: Two for me, then. This is what the French do.” His best item? A book collection on Parisian caricatures and stereotypes.

I found a handwritten record of the monthly price of paper over a period of three years – using Republican dates. (For those who aren’t aware, after The Revolution the Republicans created a new calendar, as well as measurements of volume and time. For example, each week had ten days and each month had three weeks.) It was only 40€, but I practiced excellent self-restraint. Perhaps next time I won’t.

Also found were a portfolio of Dalì’s illustrations for The Divine Comedy, an Art Nouveau photo album, and an original edition of the newspaper that printed Victor Hugo’s “The Man Who Laughs.” I really wanted to buy the Victor Hugo story because the illustration was very familiar to me. For the select few of you who have been told my reoccurring dreams: perhaps you can remember the one about the hanging man or the crows. This illustration looked like it was straight out of my dream, although I don’t recall ever seeing this image before. I have had several experiences similar to this since being here, but those will be saved to become subject matter for a later entry.

I was discussing some political caricatures with Sylvie, one of the vendors, when a man came up who was documenting the market. Apparently the market is in its thirtieth year and he is photographing its vendors for a book. We engaged in an informal interview and I explained to him why I preferred open-air markets to other stores. He thought it was a matter of convenience, but I think it is quite the contrary. It’s not easy to find out about or attend these kinds of markets. Besides the fact that I love breathing fresh air while I shop, I find the common, and often obscure, interests of the vendors and shoppers of a particular market a magical thing. For these vendors, finding and selling these books is a full-time job. They have to truly love their merchandise. Similarly, the average shopper is simply not going to go out of his way early Saturday mornings to attend specialty markets unless they have a genuine interest in that particular good. Also, the vendors develop their own social groups within the market, taking turns between watching the tables and making coffee runs. It’s a social experience that cannot be found at any mall.

I only bought six photographic snapshots (and was given two more) and two 19th-century political caricatures (21€ altogether). On the way back to the Metro, I stopped at a café and celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with a quick shot of whisky (only 2€!). In all honesty, this was more to warm my body from the past few hours spent in the cold than to celebrate the holiday. When asked, one of the vendors replied that today was no holiday. Every day was a reason to go to the bar and get drunk.

All this week, more and more advertisements for whisky (Scottish and American) have been plastered on the walls of the Metro stations. I found this one rather arousing and worthy of posting.

My next stop was Café Percier in the 8th arrondissement, where I presently sit and type after having eaten a croque monsieur and drunk a disappointing glass of Cheverny.

Song: M. Ward - Rollercoaster

In French class this morning, we saw, per my request, a music video satirizing contemporary, upper-class Parisians. I am currently searching on YouTube for a link. Hilarious.

After class, I went back to talk to the Apple technician, or the man who currently controls life as I know it. Unfortunately, his advice hasn't been helping me very much. The French agree that Internet access is terrible here (and I don't care to admit exactly how much this blog costs me).

My plan was to find a loaf of challah in le Marais. With the help of an African arts and artifacts dealer, I found a next-to-amazing bead shop instead. I also found a Swedish cultural center and, consequently, flyers for hip galleries and musical events.

Readers, today I found the love of my life. I know that I say this every six months or so, but I think this time its for real. I was walking, lost in my Nutella and banana crêpe, when I turned around the corner and BAM. Before my eyes was beauty in its purest (and most architectural) form. Was it Notre Dame or, even better, Sacre-Coeur? No, it was Georges Pompidou, his collection, and most important of all, his free wireless connection.

Le Centre Pompidou is where the beautiful, intelligent, and patient congregate. I have found yet another sliver of heaven here in Paris.

Pictured are two of many slide viewers (or what I'm assuming to be slide viewers, but because slides are quite before my time it is difficult to say for sure).

Today I finally received a compliment on my French. I was also able to actually understand and respond accurately and clearly to a woman who requested directions.

Tonight I went to Starbucks on Opera (again).

Objective Truth: Friday afternoons, in the Châtelet Metro station, a man plays the hammered dulcimer. Before my time here in Paris comes to an end, I intend to request from him a private lesson. My ears belong to him and his instrument.

Song: Peter, Bjorn, and John - Young Folks

I am going to have to start drinking coffee in the mornings. There is no way that I can make it through my three-hour long French class without massive amounts of caffeine.


For our other class, we took a tour of the Metro and some of its best stations. We talked about the Metro's initial construction (started in 1900), as well as Guimard's Art Nouveau entrances and tilework. Another of the entrances is styled with Art Deco (as pictured). My favorite station is at Arts et Métiers. It looks like you're standing inside of a copper submarine.

After class, we went out for margaritas and Long Island iced teas in the Bastille area. Some of us had more drinks than others, but a good time was had by all. Afterwards, Kathryn and I went to the Champs for pizza and McDonald's sundaes.

After finishing all of my French homework, I made it a relatively early night. Lately I have been extraordinarily tired. My days are frustrating and my nights are restless. I have also noticed that I am losing weight, which was part of the plan. This is due to the thousands of steps I take every day just to get into and out of the Metro. Lately I have been more breathless than usual. I thought it was because I was out of shape, but I think my asthma has been acting up. Same goes for my allergies. In short, I haven't had the time to do anything I want and I haven't found the time to do all the things I need.

Objective Truth: In the States, it is the responsibility of drivers to not hit pedestrians. It is assumed that the pedestrian would rather be avoided than hit and it is up to the driver to decide which option he would rather choose. In France, it is assumed that the driver has no particular preference and it is up to the pedestrian to take responsibility over his life. With this said, please be aware of what's around you when walking. For drivers, the sidewalks are also fair game.

Prior to class, I sat in Starbucks eavesdropping on a trio of fashion students. They had an assignment in which they had to design a themed line to coordinate with the professor's previous lines. They had terrible ideas and I couldn't help but to contribute.

For class we went to le Musée Carnavaly, or the museum for Parisian history. They have so many interesting things, including two rooms of shop signage.

We patroned a café during our break. In the café was a rather large un chien café. He adorably sat up in the chair next to mine, reminding me of my recent dreams. Essentially, I am going to have to get a dog when I return to the States.

Hopefully a Figment of My Overactive Imagination: There is an issue with weight control in this city. Granted, one sees a lot of professional models, but there are a lot of incredibly skinny women. In Starbucks, one woman seemed absolutely nauseated by her coffee cake (maybe it was because she realized she had spent 4€ on it). I have also noticed that in the cosmetic departments at stores and in local pharmacies, there are aisles and aisles of weight-loss products. How they can afford these products after buying their luxury-grade purses and shoes I have no idea.

To further support this claim, ma mère tells me every day that the foods I eat will make me fat. Apparently orange juice is not on the list of approved foods provided by her e-nutritionist. Perhaps this is why cigarettes are so popular.

Maybe this has something to do with the fact that people-watching has become a national past-time. I have observed that both couples and friends sit next to, rather than across from, each other in cafes. This makes it easier to not only view the passerby, but to also talk about them.

Then again, I also thought that the French were uncommonly image-conscious because they often check out their reflections in shop and restaurant windows. I have since found an explanation to justify these actions: The average diet consists of a lot of salad and red wine, yet there are rarely any mirrors in the bathrooms.

On a lighter note, for dinner we had veal (I had to ask) and for dessert, du gateau de pomme.

Song: Cat Stevens - Here Comes My Baby

I have very few comments on today's events.

First of all, Serge Gainsbourg is kind of awesome. Here, he sings about what it's like to be a hole-puncher of Metro tickets.


Secondly, the boulangerie where I bought my lunch has a fixed price for lunch. A sandwich, brownie, and drink cost 5€. When I said I didn't want a drink, they charged me a euro more. What gives?

There is a cool guitar store by the third-party Apple reseller shop. Here is one of the many cool guitars.

Every weekday evening I have to be home by 8:00 for dinner. By the time we get out of dinner, the cafés are closed and I go to bed. So, on most days, the only free time I have (which is the same as time to do homework and my reading) is the few hours after class and before dinner.

Today I spent that time at a new café in the Latin Quarter with my reading and a chocolate-flavored frozen coffee drink. I also stopped into a shop that sold art- and literary-related stationary, calendars, and the like. I bought a Victor Hugo bookmark for Les Misérables and some Victor Hugo stationary. I also bought a new totebag, as I have nothing appropriate for the long, heavy hauls I make around the city with my Powerbook. On one side of the totebag are silhouettes of a spoon, bowl, and milk. The other side has (what I would call) Surrealist silhouettes of cereal flakes. At a later date, I watch a music video that reminds me of this pattern.

I unintentionally choose clothing and bags with symbols instead of words, likely because written and spoken language is the only thing that separates me from everybody else here.

On the topic of language, I find French unsatisfactory for all the emotions I want to express. There are few other words for amusant. If it's funny, interesting, or anything short of bizarre, it's called amusant. The French student staying at the house enlightened me to intéressant. However, ma mère doesn't use any French adjectives other than bon, amusant, and terrible.

Song: Benoît Pioulard - Sous La Plage

I absolutely love Sundays. By Sunday morning, the city is relaxed, either thankful to be awake or blissfully still sleeping. There is never any reason to start trouble on a Sunday.


A puppeteer, not an accordion player or guitarist, joined my morning metro ride. In a matter of minutes, he had set up a curtain, started his boombox, and performed a three-charactered hippie puppet show. This truly made my day and perhaps even my entire trip.

Ascending from this magical netherworld, I passed an outdoor café and several men smoking cigars. Never once in my life have I been the slightest bit intrigued by a cigar, but at that moment, I would have killed a man for one.

Objective Truth: Sometimes when people find out you're American, they ask if you know Michael Jackson.

Song: Peter, Bjorn, and John - Paris 2004

There is a laundromat only a block from my house. It costs 3.50€ to wash each load and a few euros to dry them. This is the first time a sock of mine has been eaten by the laundry, so I left a note asking the man who used the machine after me to leave my sock if he found it mixed with his own.


Across the street from the laundromat is a boucherie. Here is an incredibly well-behaved dog waiting patiently for some scraps.


After laundry, I went up to le Marais in effort to exchange a headband at American Apparel and find another café with wi-fi. I picked up a sandwich at a local boulangerie, which had these amazing desserts. How could anyone turn down religieuse chocolat for only 3€?




It was an absolutely beautiful day. I spent much of the afternoon in a park among lots of cute dogs, babies, and couples picnicking on the grass. It was nearing perfection when the wind blew away my Caroline Weber and I was forced to engage in pursuit. This park also had tables for ping-pong, which, in France, is apparently only played by hipsters.


I traversed the city to Starbucks, where the internet failed me. My next try was McDonalds, but again, I had no luck. I gave up my search and stopped at the Trocadero for a Nutella and banana crêpe. Later that evening I met with Schane for a beer and made it home by 2:30 am.

Song: Jóhann Jóhannsson - The Sun’s Gone Dim and the Sky’s Turned Black

After French class, I continued my quest for a solid internet connection. Kathryn and I ran into each other at the Starbucks on Victor Hugo. We couldn’t get a signal, so we went to a café off of Miromesnil. The waiters there loved us. We shared croque madames, wine and cigarettes. We left to meet up with Liz and then I went with Brigeth for mojitos and des crêpes sucrés.

Song: Canada - Asleep in Leaves

On the way to class, I passed by a store that sold thousands upon thousands of these little figurines. This set is of Marie Antoinette and her king, but there were also Egyptians and Tour de France participants and every French general of all time. Absolutely amazing.

Our class met outside of the Palais Royal. We were able to sit and sunbathe for a little bit before leaving to explore the various passages couverts.
For lunch, un jambon crudité and un crêpe citron. I had only one quick Strongbow before coming home to dinner.

Yikes: More artichoke, broccoli, and a platter of mackerel, one for each of us. Yes, I was served the whole damned thing. Yes, I did my best to hide my lack of culture and kept my complaints on a purely guttural level. Yes, I tried some – pas terrible, except for the head, scales, and bones dilemma. It was distinctly oily. No, I didn’t finish it and, yes, ma mère seemed to delight in my struggles.

I am starting to understand and develop distaste for the post-existential, passive-aggressive nature of the general public. Perhaps the intensity of Parisian literacy (they read Derrida on the Metro) is actually a civic crisis.

Song: Rachel's - Egon and Edith

The class went to the Musée d’Orsay. What an amazing museum – I’ll be spending a lot more time there. They have Manet’s Olympia and Déjeuner and Courbet’s Burial at Ornans and L’origine du monde. Très magnifique!

These lucky elementary-aged children were given a lecture on the Birth of Venus. Consider what this situation would be like in the States.









On my return home from class I had a sexual harrassment incident in the subway station. I was walking with Kathryn and a man passing in the opposite direction brushed his hand against the inside of my thigh, surely by accident. The crowd was moving fast so I only had the time to turn my head and stare him down. He got a piece of that, too.

These sort of occurrences aren't nearly as rare as they are in the States. A few days prior I had a man press himself against me in the subway during rush hour. I passed a homeless man masturbating, fortunately facing the wall, in another subway station. On several different occasions, other girls in the group have been flashed by men, even in public areas in the middle of the afternoon. Apparently sexual dynamics are very different here than they are in the States. They feel that way, too.

Update: The next Saturday, I was standing on board a relatively busy train. I felt something pressing against the outside of my thigh, not thinking much of it until it moved onto my crotch. I gave the man a terrible look, he apologized, and I got off the train. He followed me through the subway station onto the next platform, trying to talk to me the whole way. He eventually left after I started waving my arms about and shouting, clearly agitated and definitely making a scene.

Lunch: A chicken and tomato sandwich from a deli-sort of restaurant in the Passy and Trocadero vicinity.

Dinner: I received sliced, raw artichoke for our appetizer, but Mika and ma mère had avocado. (Howard has since told me that this was most likely an honor. The French don't find avocado particularly exotic.) For the main course we had a dish with meat. Chicken, duck, rabbit, who could guess at this point. I feel rude asking night after night what kind of meat we are served.

Verifiable Observation: Sliced tomatoes are pinker here than they are in the States. They are also a lot more juicy and flavorful.

Song: Mirah - The Struggle

I considered writing about the inconstant feelings of homesickness and self-doubt, but the only questions people ask concern what foods I have been eating and what my living situation is like. Per request, I will do my best to continue documenting my gastronomical habits. But first, allow me to explain where I am living. Outside of my bedroom window is a garden and patio. My bedroom is quite sparse. I have a stand-up shower and a separate room for the toilet, both of which I share with the other housemates. The apartment sits on the first floor in a gated apartment building. I have been complaining every day that ma mère enters my room and moves my things about. I found out that she has a maid. How she can afford a maid and not dish soap, I have no idea, but now I won’t feel guilty requesting that my worn under garments not be touched. Anyway, the building is on a quiet, one-way street in a neighborhood full of old women and fluffy, little dogs. The walk to the metro has me pass two Chinese restaurants, a patisserie, a boulangerie, a fromagerie, two boucheries, the pizza shop, and a florist. In the neighborhood are also the Balzac and Monet museums.

The metro is two short blocks away. Three men live in the station (which is why they really can’t be called homeless). I find it worthwhile to mention that these men, on most mornings, are headless.

Waiting for my train, I always watch these men. They are often talking with one another and every morning I am reminded that they have found a friendship more tolerant and durable than any I'll ever experience.

This is a historically rich and beautiful city, but I have not found it particularly awe-inspiring. I read this urban experience like I would any other. Some buildings are concrete bricks of heaven when hit by the light of the rising sun, while others are merely canvases for graffiti. Like any other major world city, there are long, awkward metro rides, even though there are often accordionists playing on the train next to you. While this seems perfectly charming at first, once it has to compete with your iPod its simply obnoxious. Like many cities, it is easy to go a long period of time being bustled about by hundreds of other people without making any actual human contact or even having to speak. There are times when the urban experience is wholly alienating, but others when it prompts the genuine spirit of humanity.

Objective Truth: You have to operate the doors of the subway trains. There is a latch that has to be lifted up in order for the doors to open. Don’t push down – this will make you look like a tourist.

Let us return to the information that’s actually important. After my classes, I had un sandwich du poulet tika and, while shopping, a berry tart. For dinner, we had fried cheese cubes and some kind of macaroni noodle dish with sliced hot dog. The conspiracy theorist in me suspected this to be a sort of tribute to my infantile American incompetence.

I managed to postpone laundry by buying a new pair of jeans at H&M. Now I only need to find cheap socks. I tried some jeans at the Levi Store, but they didn’t fit properly. Here is an interesting study on cultural tastes. There are several different sectors of Levi-Strauss. The French/Belgium branch only carries three styles for women: Flare, regular, or slim-cut. The cuts and the washes are different depending on what region it is. I stopped to talk to the salesman about this. He described my style as classic (but surely not in that Parisian way). That wouldn’t exactly be the way I would explain it. He suggested that I buy some jeans with a streaked, European wash and that it would help my style to loosen up.

Song: Beirut - Scenic World

A terrible day. I left early for France Handling, the company who apparently was holding my suitcase hostage. I had to take a train out of central Paris and to Parc des Expositions, an exhibition complex currently featuring an international agriculture show. Once there, I was instructed to take a bus out to some industrial park, where I had to march through a half mile of swamp. I finally found the company, but they had closed their reception for lunch and refused to talk to me until their hour was finished. When they finally opened, I paid my 184€ and received my bag. They called a cab for me and I was driven back to the agriculture show, where I took the train into central Paris and straight to class. It was a very frustrating and degrading experience, especially when a parking lot full of truckers howled at me in French. For dinner? Some sort of chicken dish.

Objective Truth: Some languages operate on an international, cross-cultural level.

Song: M. Ward - Right In The Head

By the early afternoon, I was completely recovered from the previous evening. I finished the rest of my assigned reading and my French homework and went out for pizza, French fries, and Evian at the pizzeria on Rue Mozart. Later that evening, I met with Brigeth for un chocolat (essentially a chocolate bar melted into a mug) and discussed possibly jetting to Dublin for St. Patrick’s Day.

Here's a picture of Notre Dame.

Objective Truth: Some people eat french fries with a fork. Some use their fingers. The first time I used a fork I felt like a tool. Really, stick to fingers. It makes the fries taste more like beef.